


(Pro)longing

by compos_dementis



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Morning Sex, Pining, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can pretend, for a little while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Pro)longing

"Miles?"

Waylon's voice from behind him is soft in the darkness, which envelops them both like a blanket. The actual blankets have been pushed down to their hips, likely thanks to Miles's tendency to wiggle his legs in his sleep, and he drowsily tugs them back up to ward off the chill.

"Mm," he responds. He's about ready to drift off to sleep again, not ready to face the day, not ready for Waylon to go back home. It's so warm under the covers with the shared body heat, and with the very faint light coming in through the blinds, Miles guesses it's not even eight o'clock.

The body behind him shuffles closer, and Waylon presses his front to Miles's back, wrapping his arms tenderly around his narrow waist. Miles lets out a soft sigh of contentment. He feels Waylon's nose against his neck, and then the hot breath that follows, sending goose bumps along his spine.

"Are you awake?" Waylon asks. His lips are not-quite-touching Miles's skin, and it tickles, so he huffs out a gentle noise that's really more like another sigh, barely an exhale.

Miles considers his response. "Mm-mm," he mumbles in the negative. His eyes are still closed. He's so exhausted still; it's been the best night of sleep he's gotten in easily a month, and he's not ready for it to end just yet.

Waylon smiles against his neck. And then kisses the skin there; chaste at first, and then when Miles shivers in delight, he does it again, this time with an open mouth.

"We could go out, later." Waylon's talking. Miles can barely register it. The words only make sense a few seconds after they're said. "To eat." Another little wet kiss against his skin, this time a few inches lower, at the top of his bare shoulder blade. Miles is suddenly glad he sleeps without a shirt. "At that place you like."

Miles makes a soft noise of consent. He can't muster enough energy to actually speak, still in that strange realm between sleeping and waking, acutely aware of his own hot breath on his pillowcase, of Waylon shuffling closer, and--

_Ah._ Waylon's hard. His arm around Miles's waist tightens and pulls him back, just a centimeter or two, but it's enough to cause Miles to make a drowsy little noise, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"Is this okay?" Waylon's whispering against his neck.

He's never really had a lover ask for explicit consent before. From his first and only boyfriend -- a significantly older man when Miles was seventeen -- to the countless string of brief lovers he’s had in his various beds, no one's ever really bothered asking. Miles isn't picky about it, truthfully. If he doesn't like something, he's perfectly capable of speaking up. But Waylon's breathless question makes him shudder regardless.

And Miles finally speaks up with an equally quiet, "Yes."

Waylon's mouth returns to his neck, open and wet, and he rocks forward, his cock hard against Miles's rear. The arm around his middle snakes backward; Miles feels the sudden warmth of fingertips against his abdomen, trailing idly down his stomach. Miles has always been ticklish, and twitches at the contact, making a sound of protest, but Waylon just smiles again, moving his hand lower and lower still.

He's so tired, and yet he feels himself getting hard, mildly impressed at his own libido. Miles tilts his head further into his pillow and Waylon kisses the juncture where neck meets shoulder, scraping teeth lightly over his skin, simultaneously rocking forward again so Miles can feel how much he wants him.

"Oh," Miles moans faintly, presses back to meet him. He wishes he could wake up like this every morning, with Waylon rutting slowly against him, with Waylon's hand dipping below the waistband of his sweat pants, grasping him--

Pleasure shoots up his spine; he can feel it even in his toes. For someone who'd probably been presumed straight his entire life, Waylon knows exactly what makes him tick. In response to the noise he's made, Waylon wriggles his other hand out from underneath them and starts shoving the sweatpants down and out of the way.

Fuck. Miles doesn't know what exactly's happened, when last night Waylon had been so submissive, but he's not about to complain. Seeing Waylon like this brings a spike of heat straight to his cock, making him twitch in Waylon's hand, wondering how on earth to trigger this behavior in the future. For now he's just panting softly as Waylon returns to his backside, and he's bare now, naked cock right against his skin.

Waylon makes a noise, too, like it's been physically paining him to not touch Miles, and now that he can, it's the best relief he's ever experienced. If Miles weren't so sleepy, he could have come just from that sound alone. Part of him wonders (part of him is always wondering) if he gets like this with Lisa-- but he doesn't want to think about that. Not when Waylon seems to so desperately _want_ him.

It's not enough, though. Miles is selfish, and though Waylon's hand around him is tight, and warm, and though Waylon's thrusting lazily against the curve of his ass like he'll die if he doesn't, Miles wants more. He always wants more.

So he turns, laying so his stomach is flat to the mattress, and sure enough, Waylon follows, climbing atop his back, and the pressure of Waylon's hips pushing his own cock down into the sheets makes Miles actually whimper. He’s frotting against the threadbare cloth covering the mattress beneath him, face in his pillow, and Waylon pauses to tug Miles’s sweats down and off. Once they’re tossed off the bed, he shifts to get his knees between Miles's, urging his legs apart. They're still beneath the blankets, enveloped in warmth, and it only serves to accentuate the feeling of skin sliding against skin, of the soft cotton rubbing pleasantly against his erection.

Waylon moves behind him, mattress creaking, and Miles doesn’t dare open his eyes, just feels one of those hands work its way beneath his hips, and Miles lifts up obediently. With his legs still splayed and his ass in the air, face in his pillow, Miles feels oddly exposed. Not in a bad way, though; he’s just not often the one in this position, especially not when it’s with Waylon.

When Waylon wraps a hand around him again, Miles gives a hum of pleasure, and feels Waylon move closer once more, positioning his cock so that it slides easily between his buttocks. They’ve never done this. In the entire time they’ve been seeing each other, not once has Waylon maneuvered him this way, and it’s turning him on more than he’d really like to admit. Miles pushes out a pleasured sigh as he feels Waylon sliding against him, that hand moving leisurely just the way Miles likes it, slow and firm.

“Fuck,” he whispers as Waylon tightens his grip at the head. Those fingers are really doing a number on him, thumb swiping along the slit, making Miles’s breath tremble, making his body tense. “Fuck, oh my god.”

Waylon chuckles. Glad to know I’m so amusing. But he forgets his embarrassment the second Waylon leans over him, kissing his spine, licking a line up to the nape of his neck and biting there, lovingly, with the barest edge of teeth. Miles jolts and thrusts into Waylon’s fingers, and Waylon makes a sound like he’s been kicked, suddenly thrusting more firmly against him, and Miles holds onto the edges of his pillow.

The hand around him moves faster. Miles wants to reach down to help, but he’s too busy holding on, huffing breathless little moans into his pillowcase like it’s his first time all over again. Waylon lifts himself up again, balanced on his knees, and he pulls back just barely – Miles feels the head of Waylon’s cock drag over his opening, not pushing, just teasing along the rim, and he must be stroking himself, he must be close.

“Please,” Miles hears himself say, and Waylon is panting quietly above him, rocks forward to slide along his cleft again. Not enough, not enough—and he thinks Waylon must be able to sense that, because suddenly he stops, leans down, puts his arms around Miles’s middle and encourages him to get up on his knees.

Miles’s legs are shaking from the strain of holding himself in that position, and he’s grateful for the change. He’d like to turn around, to kiss Waylon properly, but Waylon just keeps them both how they’ve been, Waylon’s front to Miles’s back. This is fine, too. It’s oddly intimate, having someone at your back like this. And Waylon repositions himself, one arm around Miles’s waist, opposite hand working Miles’s cock again.

_Christ._ There’s a burning sensation building in his thighs from the effort of keeping himself like this, but it’s worth it. Miles’s hands find Waylon’s hips by reaching behind him, and he encourages that thrusting movement before one of his hands reaches up to find Waylon’s hair, making a fist into it and tugging lightly. Miles is half ready to just lay down and beg Waylon to fuck him, but he’s not sure if Waylon would want that, if that’s too intimate, if that’s too—

Oh, _god,_ he’s gonna come.

He tries to warn as much with a choked off, “Way—“ and Waylon strokes him faster, with intent this time. It’s still not quite enough, he’s not quite there, teetering dangerously on the edge of a precipice, Waylon’s breaths against his neck nearly enough to tip him over. Miles clenches his jaw, tips his head back. 

Waylon kisses him so lovingly, right where his pulse flutters under his skin, and when he pulls his hips back to thrust upward again, the head of his cock rubs against Miles’s opening just right, and he’s coming, legs going rigid, eyes squeezing shut as his cock shoots bursts of come into the cage of Waylon’s fingers around the tip.

He manages to find his breath again, gasping for air, and Waylon whimpers against his skin, burying his face against Miles’s neck as he reaches his peak as well, right up against the small of Miles’s back. As they ride out the aftershocks, Waylon is panting, his breath hot and damp, and neither say anything for a long moment, just holding this position on their knees as Waylon touches him idly, exhaustedly.

Lisa’s a lucky woman if she has this to look forward to every morning.

After about a minute, Waylon detaches himself from him, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. Miles mourns the loss for all of five seconds before Waylon moves around toward his front, kissing him properly, like he’ll never be able to kiss Miles again. He always kisses Miles like this; sweetly, savoring every second. It makes his heart ache.

“Did—“ Miles’s voice sounds odd to his own ears. He clears his throat. “Did you still want to get breakfast?”

Waylon laughs, and this time, Miles can watch his face light up, red in the cheeks from the exertion, hair dark with sweat. Miles’s lips turn upward into a smile, too, and he kisses him again, his hands on Waylon’s face; they smile against one another’s lips. It’s a small moment of reprieve in the nightmare of their post-Murkoff lives.

“Might want to bathe first,” Waylon remarks, dragging his fingers through the mess on Miles’s back. Miles snorts a laugh.

“I don’t know, maybe it can be decorative. Post-coital chic.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Miles grins. “You brought it up, not me.”

They stay like that, kissing each other sweetly between words, for another few minutes. When Miles’s legs can’t take any more of this position, they finally pull away from one another like it’s the hardest thing in the world to do. Miles climbs off the bed and thinks about the shower – warm spray and steam. 

A glance at the clock says it’s barely eight. They’ll shower together, go grab coffee and pastries, like a real couple on a real date, and then Waylon will go home. He’ll return to his wife and his children, who won’t bother asking where he’s been all night, even when their usual too-drunk-to-drive excuse has been worn down to almost nothing with repetition. Miles should be grateful for the lack of questions. Instead, he just feels _guilty._

“Waylon?”

It’s Waylon’s turn to pause now, looking at him with that still-flushed face. “Yeah?”

Miles swallows. He has no right to ask for anything more than what they’ve got. Waylon isn’t his; they can pretend for a night or two, but that’s it, and he realizes this, and yet can’t keep himself from asking anyway. “We could always just… stay in, today. For a little while.”

It’s not right. He knows it, and Waylon knows it, and Miles can tell from the way Waylon hesitates, the silence oddly heavy. Miles wants to drag him back into bed and keep him there and never let him leave. He wants this morning’s quiet intimacy to drag on forever.

Waylon just nods. “All right. We can stay in.” And then, with a smile, “I’ll make you breakfast.”

Miles feels himself smile in return. It can’t be forever; of course it can’t. 

But they can keep pretending for a little while longer.


End file.
